


A Minor Trifle

by Billieblujean



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:00:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9094558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Billieblujean/pseuds/Billieblujean
Summary: Grog Strongjaw is not a smart man. But he is a hard worker, and he wants to surprise Pike for this Winter's Crest. Just cheesy little drabble.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I just had this idea randomly. Forgive any mistakes, please. Written on my phone while taking a break from cleaning up after Christmas. I hope you don't hate it.

Grog is not a smart man. He might tell you that he is, but he knows the truth. Sometimes, it hurts when he sees his friends reading important messages, or hears them laughing at jokes that he almost gets, but not quite. Sometimes, he feels downright useless when he tries to go into the shops to purchase small gifts for those he loves. He's never sure if he's being taken advantage of or if he's being treated fairly. 

He'd never say it out loud, but it's one of the main reasons he prefers battle to negotiation, war to peace. When he's out there, raging, protecting those he loves as fiercely as Pike loves her goddess, as fiercely as Vex loves her gold, he's in his element. He's bloody brilliant out there. There is no doubt, no suspicion. He is entirely in control of the outcome.

But here, in town, he feels weak. Fragile. Sometimes, he feels so close to recognizing the words and numbers that elude him, but they slip past him, as if he is trying to hold water in his open hands. And he doesn't say anything to the others. He doesn't want them to know.

And so, these past few months, now that the war against the Chroma Conclave is over, now that there is nothing to take his time but the rebuilding of Emon (which he helps with, daily, lending his strength to the town that has both loved and accepted him), he quietly sneaks off in the evenings, using the excuse of getting some ale down at the nearby inn. 

The door jingles as he opens it, and he instinctively flinches as he quickly shuts it behind him to keep out the growing cold as Winter's Crest approaches. A young woman looks up from her place behind her desk, and smiles at him warmly. "Hello, Grog." 

"Hello, Imara," he replies, his hands twisting into each other nervously.

She stands and, following their usual routine, fixes two cups of tea, handing one to him. He doesn't much care for it, its heavy floral notes are too light and delicate for him. But, he accepts it graciously and sips it over the next two hours. The work is grueling for him, and he imagines it must be terribly frustrating for her. But, he keeps going, struggling with sounds and shapes that he just feels shouldn't be so hard for him. And she keeps going, repeating the same motions over and over again, her small, human hands tracing the same patterns over and over on stacks of parchment, his large, calloused fingers holding a quill that looks comically small in his giant hand tracing and retracing the symbols in a painstaking attempt to get the muscle memory to stick.

She helps him with the purchasing of the gift. It is a small golden figure. He remembers that Wilhand had one quite similar to it in his home, resting upon the hearth. Grog is excellent at recognizing shapes, after all. He describes it to Imara, the local school teacher, who then enters the store that holds it, and learns the price. 

They spend an entire evening repeating the cost, and looking at which coins he should hand over. Rote memorization. It's not the same as him being able to read it himself, not quite, but it is close enough, he thinks.

The next day, Grog enters the shop, quietly repeating the number in his head. He is pleased to hear that the number Imara taught him is the same the shopkeeper speaks. "An honest one," he thinks. This is important to remember. 

He pulls out the coins carefully, one at a time, whispering to himself. "Gold, gold, gold, gold. Silver, silver, silver. Copper." He slides them across the table, and the shopkeeper smiles. If it's a little forced, he has to forgive them. After all, this is a busy time of year and there are customers waiting behind him.

He carefully, painstakingly wraps the tiny gift. And then, as he sits in his room at Greyskull Keep, he pulls out the parchment Imara had gifted him, along with the quill and inkwell. What he's going to do is hard. Harder than standing up to Kevdak when he was young. Harder than fighting dragons. He works slowly and carefully, his bottom lip between his teeth as he pushes himself harder than ever before. It feels like hours before it is complete.

The morning comes, and his friends - his family - are gathered together, exchanging gifts. He is nervous. He is afraid that he has forgotten something. He is worried that she won't even notice. But, he has made his decision, and he will not stand down. He waits until there is a lull in the festivities before carefully, gently handing the gift to Pike.

"Here, Pike. This is for you."

"Oh, thank you, Grog!" Pike happily takes the gift that looks so tiny in his hands and so big in hers. She pauses, noting the handwriting on the tag. Grog finds himself holding his breath. "Grog," Pike asks in a whisper. "Did you write this?"

Grog feels his face burn as he drops his eyes to the ground. "Um... Yeah. I did. No big deal, though, right?" He glances up to meet her eyes nervously. They are shining with unshed tears.

Later, after smiles and tears and laughter and congratulations, the gift will be opened. It will be loved. His family will fawn over his careful letters and his beautiful gift. Grog will blush and pretend it's not a big deal. But it is. It really, really is. And, after that moment, any time one walks into Pike's bedroom, they will see that there are two things placed on the hearth in a place of pride. One is a beautiful golden figurine of Serenrae. The other is a small piece of parchment on which is written, "To Pike, Love Grog."

**Author's Note:**

> I have a headcanon that after this, Pike sits with Grog every night she can and reads with him. Also, I hope he continues to visit Imara so he can write everyone's names on their presents next year.


End file.
